ROC:Survivor Round Three: The Swamp
by ROCSurvivor
Summary: When nine slaves escape from their captors into a mysterious swamp, they find themselves fighting dangers, enemies and each other. Interactive.
1. The Beginning: ROCS Coordinator

**Title:** ROC:Survivor Round Three: The Swamp   
**Author:** Nine doomed beasts running and writing for their lives   
**Rating:** PG-13 for violence and possible unsavory elements   
**Outcome:** Uncertain. It all depends on you.... 

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Moonlight fell in long strands through the hanging vines and drooping trees to splash onto the marshy earth. 

Weary beasts trudged in weary threes through moss and fern. Two weeks since they had entered this swamp. Two weeks since they had seen the sunlight clearly, muted as it was by the dense canopy. Two weeks, and walking every day. 

A whip snapped; somebeast laughed. 

Many, many weeks since freedom. 

The stench, the murky earth beneath tired paws, the cloying humidity, and the tiny insects that never seemed to rest all could have been bearable in better company. But the captivity, and the relentless path towards it, only made the surroundings more viscerally offensive. 

"Hold up, you lot. Tricky bit ahead, let's not go all at once." 

They had approached a thick growth of trees and hanging vines; it seemed to stretch for miles. Gerin Steel, mercenary weasel and leader of the little janut, eyed it up expertly and saw no way around. They were going to have to forge on. 

He strolled back through the ranks of slaves and his underlings. Pausing midway, he turned and called to the foremost: "First rank. Go on." 

The first trio of beasts marched dutifully forward, flanked by their guard. They disappeared into the murky thicket. 

A moment's wait. 

"Well?" Gerin barked into the treeline. 

"All clear, boss," came a faint but cheery voice. 

Gerin nodded firmly. "On we go then, lads." 

The slave train moved on. 

All but three sets of three had been swallowed by the swamp when the atmosphere began to change. 

First it was subtle, a sort of rumbling over the drone of insects. Then the underbrush rustled and shivered and the rumble became a growl. First came a curse -- then a yelp -- then the brush shook with shrieks and wails and sick sounds of tearing, moans cut off abruptly, bad crackings and crushings, and an overpining chaos -- and the sounds of something very, very big. 

There was no time for thought. The slaves ran in one direction and their guards in another. Gerin Steel, at the rear, drew his sword and charged into the forest, a snarl of delight on his muzzle. 

Fast through the thicket -- swift through the bayou. They moved with a speed that had been long since forgotten. Only when the light of day warmed their faces did the nine survivors slow and stop, sinking to the ground in weary relief. 

They had made it. 

Where _were_ they? 

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Where are they indeed? Who was that strange assailant? And who are these nine creatures, chained in each others' company, lost in a swamp full of dangers both sentient and feral? For character biographies and the full text of the story, visit rocsurvivor at Geocities (link on the author page). Then visit our message boards to chat with the other readers, and follow the links to cast your weekly vote regarding which characters live to fight another day ... and which one is sacrificed to the swamp.   
For questions, leave a review and I'll be sure to get back to you -- otherwise, on with the game!


	2. Humorless Freedom: Lalilly Turnup

**Humorless Freedom**   
**Lalilly Turnup**

Lalilly-Calthina-Sophia Turnup was not one for running. Her old and stout body made for little use in trying to keep up with her fellow chain mates, (especially without her walking stick.) _Those thrice dratted slavers!_ The she-mouse flopped thankfully onto the ground when the first rays of light touched her weary face. Dorog and Jickador followed suit quickly and the trio rested. Lal was not the first to regain her breath, but she was the first to speak seeing as how the other two seemed preoccupied with looking about. 

"Nasty little run in there, eh?" the she-mouse commented dryly. "I don't know about you two, but I'm a bit bogged down at the moment," she giggled at her own joke as the hamster and otter gave her incredulous looks. Humor was her defense mechanism against worry or fear, how could she help it? Since no beast seemed in the mood for wise cracks, Lal took a moment to assess her surroundings and self. 

Her clothes were torn and ragged, her cane had been taken away, and her lovely bonnet had long since been lost to the mire of the swamp, but she still had her head, and to a Turnup, the best thing you can have is that lump sitting a'twixt your shoulders. "The most important thing you've got is yerself, Lally!" her father had always said… Well, that's what he always said when he wasn't ranting at her for her latest escapade in the settlement or Abbey. 

Her surroundings echoed her clothing – ragged, splotchy and in need of a good dress down. Naked trees reached toward the sky while the only birds that sang their songs in the murky world were crows and thrush. All in all, it was certainly in need of a makeover, but unfortunately, (or fortunately perhaps…we may never know,) Lal had neither the tools nor the gumption to take on such a task as making a bog hospitable. Her chain mates, Roggie and Jicks appeared the worst for wear as well, though the hamster seemed as fierce as ever and otter strange. 

"S'pose the chain isn't goin' to do us any good on our feet," Lal thought aloud. "Much as you fellas are swell company, I can't say I fancy bein' stuck on you for much longer." She looked about curiously, now what did one use to remove a shackle aside from its key? 

Lalilly Turnup, an old mousemaid with an attitude, is chained to Dorog, a quixotic golden hamster, and Jickador Aldo, a jolly but devious otter. For full character biographies, follow the link on the author page. 


	3. Optimism?: Blake Martinet

**Optimism?**   
**Blake Martinet**

"Run!" Blake wasn't entirely sure who had suggested that particular course of action, but he did not have time to ponder the veracity of the order, especially not when there were shrieks emanating from the thicket ahead. Also, he was chained to two otherbeasts who were less inclined to analyze the situation and more inclined to drag him along behind them, whether or not he was a willing participant in their panicked flight. 

Dashing through the bayou, retracing their steps of the past fortnight, the three chain-bound trios of former prisoners soon split up, taking different paths through the cypress trees. Soon, Blake could only see the dingy ground and the slime-covered trees in the murky light. His two companions' heavy breathing was the only sound other than the occasional jingling of chains, the squelching of mud under their footpaws, and the heavy buzzing of the bothersome swamp insects. Blake, being shorter than the other two and accustomed to a lifestyle that was somewhat sedentary, began to fall behind the bird Sturnus, chained to his left. The bird could barely run properly while chained to two otherss, but with much fluttering of wings and long, ungainly steps, he kept ahead of Blake with no trouble. 

Blake began to fall farther and farther behind, the slack length of chain that had previously existed becoming more taut with each inch Blake fell behind. It wouldn't be long until he was pulled stumbling ahead by the chain. 

"Stop... please!" At the far end of the chain, Jessandra Lookhart slowed her stride, pulling on the chain slightly to slow Sturnus, who fluttered his black wings and rose off of the ground a few inches before landing with an audible "squelch". "Thank you... marm," Blake panted, doubled over at the waist. Now that they were resting and he could get a good look at them, he noticed that Jessandra was almost as tired as he--most likely, it was only her long stride that kept her from being the first to request a halt. The bird, though, had endurance, even when completely out of his element and traveling over unstable terrain. The three had exchanged names while they had been marching through the open meadows that had given way to the bayou in which they were now stranded, but hadn't been properly introduced. 

"You don't need to call me 'marm,' 'Jess' will do fine," the wildcat mentioned, grimacing a bit as she looked around for a place to sit. There was no convenient rock or patch of dry ground in their vicinity, so she satisfied herself by leaning against a slimy tree. 

"Of course, marm." Jess was not entirely sure whether or not Blake was absent-minded enough to call her "marm" while agreeing not to, or if he was simply trying to irritate her. She shrugged it off. "I am wondering what exactly we are going to do," Blake continued. 

"What do you mean?" 

"We are chained together, which is inconvenient," Jess raised her eyebrows at the understatement, "We have no supplies, which is potentially lethal, and we have, unless I am gravely mistaken, no idea where we are, nor any idea regarding any potential escape from this insufferable quagmire. I know I'm not exactly being a ray of glowing optimism, marm, but we are quite likely to end up breathing significantly less than we were when we were captured. What do you think we should do?" Blake's soft near-whisper clashed with his actual words, resulting in the rather absurd impression that he was prophesizing their doom but not the least bit worried about it. 

"'Breathing… what?" Sturnus asked, mildly confused. 

"As in, not breathing at all if we do not find a way out of this mess." The bird cocked his head to the side, still befuddled. 

_Giant idiot feather duster,_ Blake, to his horror, almost muttered aloud. 

The ensuing awkward silence was broken by the ringing of Jessandra's chain as she stood upright, wiping the tree-slime from her shoulder with a look of unconcealed disgust. "If we go far enough in a straight line, we'll make it out of the marsh eventually," she said. 

"Well," said Blake, content that their course of action had been decided, "shall we press on, then?" 

"Certainly, my good sir!" Jessandra replied, mocking Blake's speech. 

"'Blake' will do... marm." 

"Very well. Sir." 

Shooting the wildcat lady an exasperated look, Blake began walking, each footstep audible as he sank into the mud. The ungainly bird followed, his comical, waddling step punctuated by the occasional rustle of his wings. Finally, casting an amused glance at the mouse leading their procession, Jessandra followed. 

"So, my avian friend, do you have any ideas about getting us out of this chain?" Jess interrogated the bird. _Maybe he could break the chains—he certainly looks strong enough,_ thought Blake. 

"No idea. Can't fly with them on." _Or, perhaps, he might be just as weak as the rest of us, after weeks of marching up and down the countryside._

A large black beetle landed on Blake's footpaw and searched for higher ground. Its shell was greasy and iridescent, and its needle-like legs found tiny footholds on the metal ring that attached the accursed chain to Blake's ankle. As it scaled his legs and reached his shirt, Blake absent-mindedly brushed his paw against its back. He jumped, startled, and then plucked it from his clothing and held it in his paw, where it glared at him with eyes of a virulent red. "Lunch?" he asked, offering it to Sturnus with a trace of amusement in his voice. 

"Thank you," replied the bird, who promptly speared the beetle with his sharp beak. 

"At least you can eat, there are all sorts of nasty bugs here," Blake said, removing his spectacles and noticing that they were becoming slightly blurry. Looking at his filthy garments with the intention of wiping off the glasses, he quickly returned the spectacles to his nose, abandoning his search for something to wipe them on. He could rinse them off, once they found clean water. 

…if they found clean water. There was no fresh water to be found, and there was no dry wood for the fire that would be necessary to boil the murky water that lay in pools along their path. Dehydration would cause death within three days—Blake remembered reading that. The earlier sprint through the muck had been most unwise of them; sweat meant that they had lost most of the water that they'd already had. 

Sturnus was the only one that could eat; Blake wouldn't trust any of the swamp plants any farther than he could throw them—not far, in his current state. There hadn't been any proper food since before they'd started their journey through the swamp; apparently the slavers were as reluctant to trust the native vegetation as he was. Blearily, Blake tried to stop thinking about the elements that would overcome the pitiful trio and to turn his thoughts to more pleasant matters: 

How could they escape? 

--- 

Deep in the swamp, in a dense thicket, somebeast was chattering to herself, seemingly oblivious to the shreds of clothing and broken chain links that surrounded her. A wide trench in the mud suggested that something heavy had been dragged through the area, and the tangled pattern of footsteps suggested a terrified waltz induced by the combination of mortal peril and short chains. A dagger lay buried up to its hilt in the mud--soon the mud would cover it, and it would be lost forever. No bodies were visible, although the thicket reeked of death and crimson stains of dried blood spotted the tree limbs. 

The mumbling lizard sniffed the air for a moment. No flesh for the hungry. Perhaps a few live ones had been captured? It wouldn't hurt to look, and so the lizard scurried onward, tracking her friends by scent. It was a big swamp, but she'd find her dinner. 

Blake Martinet, a mouse who once served in the halls of vermin, is chained to Sturnus, a strong but dim grackle, and Jessandra Verdon Lookhart, a wildcat whose motherly tendencies clash with her carniverous ones. For full character biographies, follow the link on the author page. 


	4. Genesis of the Greatest Tale: Dorog

**Genesis of the Greatest Tale**   
**Dorog**

_Bein' chased through a swamp assorts ain't mah fav'rit hobby, but it does make fer some interestin' quest mah-tair-ee-el. In fact, this situation reminds meh o' the time I was battlin' a most-dangerous murda o' crows inna differen' swamp! They was aflyin' all aroun' an' aroun' meh! Now, ah had already lost mah-- Whaddya mean ah musta provoked 'em?! 'course not! All ah did was walk through a pile o' dead twigs an' such. Weel, there was some sorta goo on mah feet after that, but 'twasn't a nest, no siree! Dorog the fluff-- ah mean mighta, would neva harm anotha livin' creature withou' cause! Neva! Now, where was ah? Awwwwwww! Ye made meh lose mah train o' thought! Somethin' 'bout crows…_   
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After the brief encounter with the something of the swamp, it was quite relaxing to catch a breather. Dorog did his best to find the driest, least loamy spot he could to sit down. But unfortunately, there was nothing within the chain's length. So, the hamster plopped himself down right where he was; straight into a shallow puddle of mud. But, seeing as how he was too tired to get up, Dorog just stayed there. Lallily, or 'Veggie' as he liked to call her, had said something about getting the shackles off, but Dorog didn't care at this point. He was already composing various ballads about the mysterious encounter earlier, though none of them seemed to 'work.' There wasn't any way to leave the slavers out of the story. His ballads from just two weeks ago had already been ruined by the beast. If Dorog wasn't the hero, there was no point in composing a ballad! See, when a mysterious beast scares away all of the villains and leaves Dorog to run for his life, it's more degrading than anything else to write a ballad about THAT. But the encounter would spawn some interesting (and completely false) tales later. The ballad material was too good of an opportunity to pass up. Perhaps the slavers could be salvaged into some other ballad at a later time. 

"Well, any ideas at all, fellas?" Veggie seemed quite intent on getting free. With a sigh, Dorog resigned himself to helping her. His ballads would have to wait until later in the day. Swiveling his chubby face all around, Dorog succinctly summarized the most notable sights within view. 

"Weel, let's see what we 'ave to work with. Hmmmm… swamp to the right, swamp to the left, a big ol' rock blockin' mah view ahead, swamp an' a monster to the rear, an' this foul stench all aroun' us." Coming from Dorog, that meant a lot. Usually being the worst smelling beast for miles had left his nose virtually dead. If a stench could get through THAT impregnable barrier of numbness, it had to be bad. "Ah believe that we may 'ave to find our way outta 'ere first. Ah sure don' see any way to get these things off afore then!" Dorog rubbed the shackles to emphasize his point. The chain links clinked and the metal band moved a bit, quite loosely in fact, around Dorog's tiny, furry ankles. "Ah don't suppose that either o' you two remember the way outta here?" Dorog looked at Jick especially. With Veggie being old and Dorog being short, they had both been more following Jick during the escape. 


	5. A Feeble Attempt: Sycamore

**A Feeble Attempt**   
**Sycamore**

It was like a giant whip crack. Screams filled the air as complete pandemonium shook the slave train. Slaves and slavers alike scattered in every direction in an attempt to get away from what was undoubtedly the source of the carnage. The young otter quickly looked about himself. If there was a time to escape, now was as good as any. Grabbing his chain-mates' arms in his strong paws, he pulled them away from where the screams seemed to emanating and ran as fast as he could. 

The weasel at his left and the rabbit at his right followed him without hesitation. They had been chained together far too long not to anticipate the others' movements. Sycamore was taking charge; he would lead them to safety. They knew this, and they trusted his judgment. 

The trio dashed into the swampland, cries of anguish following them like a shadow. It did not take long for the three to stumble over each other. Their chains had snagged the undergrowth, causing them to fall crashing to the earth. By now they were used to walking through the swamp, and had conditioned themselves to unconsciously avoid the snagging plants. But they had never been in a mad rush before. 

Sycamore still held his companions' arms firmly as he picked himself up and continued running, going at a slightly slower pace to avoid another blunder. He was driving them hard, he knew, but the urgency of the situation called for it. 

They ran like that for what seemed like hours. None of them ventured to speak or suggest stopping. Something was out there killing, and nobeast wanted to be even remotely close to where the massacre had occurred. Especially if it was on their trail. They would stop, but only when they collapsed from sheer exhaustion. 

Abruptly the ground gave way from underneath the otter's foot paws. The chains hadn't snagged anything; the Earth simply disappeared beneath him. It took only an instant for Sycamore to realize that his companions were falling with him before he became waist deep in water. A sudden intense feeling of panic gripped him. They had fallen in the swamp. Desperately he tried to let go of his chain-mates and claw his way back to the bank, but they had already seized the otter and were pulling him across. An icy paw clutched his throat when he realized he had become chest deep. The paw squeezed cruelly. They were going to drown him. His attempts became more frantic, and he started to lash out at his companions. He was now neck deep. Why were they trying to drown him? 

He suddenly realized he was lying face down on the spongy, moist ground. Both the weasel and rabbit were on top of him, trying to restrain his flailing limbs. He calmed instantly. When had they left the water? He blinked, trying to recall when the water had receded, when the two had lifted him from the swamp and thrown him to safety. From what he could remember, the water level had still been climbing. 

But something was off. Sycamore noticed that he was quite comfortable lying on the soft bedding of moss. He couldn't detect the chill that should have accompanied his damp fur and clothing. The otter tensed. He was completely dry from the waist up. How could that be? He had nearly submerged before he had blacked out. How could he be dry? His befuddlement grew to fear, and he inhaled harshly, trying to quell the rising panic inside of him. He exhaled, and immediately inhaled again. What had happened? He was breathing heavily, desperately trying to calm himself, but he soon realized that with each breath he became more and more agitated. He was hyperventilating. The realization of it sent shivers down his spine, and he found that he could not stop shaking either. He felt a paw run its way across his back in a soothing manner, a feeble attempt to ease the panicking otter. 

A considerable amount of time had passed before Sycamore was able to regain control of himself. His breathing was still harsh, but it was settling, and his violent convulsions had ameliorated to some extent. The otter sat up shakily and stared at the ground, too ashamed to look at either of his companions. The two in turn were relieved to see him in better condition. They had dealt with his panic attacks before, but never to this degree. For a while they had feared for his safety. It wasn't until a stray band of sunlight—sunlight? It was dawn already?—reflect off the chains did the otter care to speak. "So how do we get these chains off?" 

Sycamore, a gentle but hydrophobic otter, is chained to Cinder, a culinary weaselbrat, and Phoebe Pavona Celendine, a stuck-up rabbit and failed social climber. For full character biographies, follow the link on the author page. 


	6. Hardly Freedom: Cinder

**Hardly Freedom**   
**Cinder**

It had not been a good day. It had not been a good night. 

Now, things were rapidly reaching the point where it looked like it would not be a good _anything_ for a very, very long time. 

Gritting her teeth as the otter beside her began to panic, Cinder glanced over at the rabbit in silent cue. With the practiced ease of people who have had to do something unpleasant quite often, they grabbed hold of the otter and began steadily moving to the other side, ignoring his protests. The weasel's grip remained firm – even when a flailing claw hooked painfully into her ear. It was a mere tick-mark on a steadily growing list of minor injuries, including welts across her face from an unfortunate encounter with some cat-o'-nine-tails they'd skirted earlier. 

The swamp bottom was hardly even, and the rabbit and otter were lucky enough to be treading on the slightly shallower portion where vegetation had taken dogged root. On the other paw, the footing on Cinder's side was a morass of sticky mud. In addition, part of it suddenly fell away from under her – forcing her to swim, churning marsh mud and foul water in her wake. Not the easiest of things to do when only one paw is free and the other is trying to restrain an almost-grown otter. 

Naturally, she felt incredibly relieved when it was finally over. 

With the otter calmed, Cinder lay quietly, snatching the opportunity for a little rest. It couldn't last, of course, and with a grunt of both irritation and regret, she gingerly sat up. The weasel glanced over to the other slaves. The rabbit – Phoebe, Cinder reminded herself, they'd somehow found time for an exchange of names when they'd first met – was clearly alright, already looking over her drenched skirts with distaste and wringing the water from the mud-stained fabric irritably. 

Her eyes slid over to the otter – Sycamore, a more socially adept part of her mind supplied. At the moment, he was reduced to little more than a trembling kit, and she remembered how badly water frightened him. Not the most helpful trait in this environment, and not something you'd typically find in an otter. She'd never bothered to ask the cause of his apparently irrational phobia. Mentally stomping down her exasperation, Cinder reached over to awkwardly pat him on the back. Off to the side, she heard Phoebe harrumph and turn away. Well, let the rabbit snub them – it wasn't like she could move away. 

"We're goin' t'be alright." Cinder wasn't sure that Sycamore heard her, but she said it aloud anyway. For Phoebe's peace of mind, not to mention her own. Attempt at morale boosting done, the weasel scooted back to her original position, wincing as her numerous aches began to throb. Oh, glory. Flinching, she lay back and allowed her eyes to slide shut, ignoring the fact that it was daytime – there were worse times to fall asleep. 

"So how do we get these chains off?" 

Cinder jerked in surprise, chains clinking as sat up to blink at Sycamore. She'd expected Phoebe to be the first among them to speak - the rabbit was scowling at the otter, plucking at the band around her ankle irritably. 

"Really, you say that like it's the simplest thing in the world – let's see, now how would we go about doing that?" Phoebe asked Sycamore, sarcasm dripping from her voice as she pretended to think. The rabbit mock-snapped her fingers, as if an idea had just occurred to her. "Oh, I know - why don't we smash them apart with rocks?" 

"That could work." The question was rhetoric, and mocking at that, but Cinder found herself seriously considering it. Free of the chains – and all it would take was a really good hit with a really hard rock. Maybe many really good hits, and maybe many really hard rocks, but in the end the loss of the heavy iron weights would be worth it. Or at least, the prospect of finally being able to enjoy some privacy. 

"You're crazy," Phoebe sniffed with her usual pomp, recovering from her incredulous stare. "There aren't any rocks around here, mush-for-brains, and these chains aren't going to break just because someone decided to try smacking them a few times." The rabbit lifted her chain and shook it at Cinder for emphasis. The clinking did sound awfully solid. 

Sycamore was examining the metal links bound to his foot. "They've gotten rusty," he offered hesitantly. "We've been wading through… the swamp, for a while." The otter's fur bristled slightly at the memory. Phoebe ignored him completely. 

"Even supposing we could get started, what then? I'm not quite built for hard labor, if you hadn't noticed." 

Cinder had. "Y'kin stay on watch?" The weasel said it doubtfully, clearly harboring little confidence in the rabbit's observation skills. "Keep an eye out fer things we don't want t'meet, like. And rocks…" Memory flashed, and she scrambled to the water again, actually wading into it as the other two yelped in alarm – Sycamore even tried to tug her back, but she impatiently batted his grip away. Her other paw, groping along the mud at the water's edge, found what she had in mind, and she tossed onto the bank triumphantly. For once, her thoughts had proved correct – after all, the swamp hadn't always been a swamp… 

The waterworn river stone bounced once then skidded along the ground, coming to a rest at Sycamore's feet, actually cleaner than when it had been fished out. 

In a rare moment of accord, Phoebe and Sycamore exchanged skeptical glances and simultaneously turned back to the clearly-mad weasel in front of them. Cinder was grinning widely, canting her head engagingly in a rare show of enthusiasm. 

"Let's git started – I want t'get out o'these chains soon, donchew?" 


	7. Naturally Talented: Phoebe Celendine

**Naturally Talented**   
**Phoebe Pavona Celendine**

Phoebe was prepared to argue her point with the weasel. She was right, Cinder was wrong, and Phoebe would make sure Cinder knew it. In fact, she was just drawing in a great gulp of air to sustain her lengthy speech when she felt Sycamore's hefty paw cover her mouth. "Why don't you just let Cinder try, Phoebe," he told her gently. "It won't do any harm, and" Sycamore darted a nervous glance at the rock, "it may even help." Phoebe quickly shoved Sycamore's hand away. "How dare you lay a paw on me!" Phoebe shouted at him, her pink ears pointing at Sycamore as if accusing him of some ghastly crime. "Who do you think you are, you stupid hydrophobic otter?!" Her voice escalated with each allegation, until she had gone from just a slightly-higher-than normal shout to a soprano ear-splitting shriek. "Certainly you don't think you have the right to touch me!" Sycamore, who was rather used to this kind of thing from Phoebe, ignored her. "You were trying to suffocate me! Don't think you can get away with this..." 

Phoebe, noticing that Cinder and Sycamore were starting to work on breaking the chain (which meant they weren't paying attention to her), chattered on some more. "Wait, I know what I should do!" Phoebe said, excitedly. "While you two fool around with a rock and some iron, I'll actually do something useful and watch out for anything that might be trying to eat us!" She gave the two an enthusiastic smile and turned around. 

Cinder started to tell Phoebe that it had been her suggestion for Phoebe to keep watch and that the rabbit should watch her mouth, but Sycamore gave her a warning glance and she restrained herself. 

Phoebe scanned the swamp. It got a bit harder to see as dusk drew on but she noticed nothing unusual beyond the normal bayou scenery – which meant that there was dark water all around, mosquitoes were everywhere, and it was raining. She stole a glance back at Sycamore and Cinder. They were working on the chain connecting the two of the two of _them,_ of course – not like it made a difference, since they wouldn't be able to break the chain anyway. Phoebe tut-tutted as she turned back to looking out for any danger. _At least I'm actually doing some work,_ Phoebe thought. _Without me and everything I'm doing, we'd never get out of this swamp!_

Phoebe checked her appearance in the algae-covered pond. It was a bit hard to see through all the yucky green plants, but Phoebe had good eyes – after all, even stupid Cinnamon could see that Phoebe was the right one to keep watch. _The only good choice that silly weasel ever made in her whole life!_ Phoebe thought. 

Phoebe groaned as she saw the state of her attire. Her dress was dripping with marsh water, her normally spotless white gloves were covered in mud, and her fur was filthy. Phoebe stared at her reflection, trying to find at least one thing that was right with how she looked. Her teeth were awful – an ugly black from all the unsanitary food the slaver's had given her (although they hadn't improved much _after_ she escaped from the slavers, either, Phoebe thought), and so she bent down to the water to wash them off. She dipped her paw in the pool and admired the fur on the back of her hand. It was such a beautiful nutty brown, and the way it sparkled in the sunset was magnificent, she should have a painting of her paw commissioned when she got out of this swamp...and then she was bitten. 

Phoebe hurled herself away from the water, tumbling into Sycamore and Cinder. All three were soon tangled together in a twisted mess of beast, chain, and pebble. 

As Sycamore and Cinder both turned to look at Phoebe, with an emotion a bit different than happy on their faces, the rabbit tried to give them a brave smile. "Er...sorry?" 


	8. Perchance to Eat: Jessandra Lookhart

**Perchance to Eat**   
**Jessandra Verdon Lookhart**

The cat, the mouse, and the grackle, though they made excellent progress, often stopped for breaks. Two weeks of slavery had obviously taken their toll on the trio- there was no reason it shouldn't have done so. They sat in silence, as if they did not wish to wast breath on one another. 

Jessandra's belly rumbled in complaint- if she were home, she would be sitting at the head of a fine table, filled with as much food as she desired. Her yellow eyes grew clouded over, as she gave herself over to a pleasant fantasy- fresh, sweet fish, fine wines, roasted woodpigeons… how fine it would be to taste bird-flesh again… a sharp tug on the chain brought the cat back to reality. She hissed a little. 

Sturnus was croaking, the sound deep and low in his throat. His eyes were wide with an unexplained mixture of fear and sadness, as if the walking featherduster had somehow managed to pick up what Jess had been fantasizing about. He gave another sorrowful croak. 

"What is it, featherbrains? Scared the nasty swamp monsters are going to come to get you?" She growled mockingly, and narrowed her eyes to slits, mimicking some fearsome beast. 

"No, no, Jessie," said Sturnus, and nodded at the thick growth of slime-covered trees that surrounded them. She cast her gaze about, searching in vain for something other than the gray-green mass of trees and the darkling shadows of the swamp. A shrub of poisonous white oleander, a slimy rock in the middle of an equally slimy pool- nothing extraordinary jumped out at her. She was just about to give up, suggest they put a stop to their break and continue with the walking (Blake was beginning to look particularly irritated) when her search was rewarded by the sound of feeble chirping. Her ears perked up- there, there was the source. A gray-brown mess of twigs… a nest. 

"Mother gone," rasped the grackle, "and little ones alone." 

"Ah." She ran her tongue over her needle-sharp fangs, and grinned nastily. "All the better for me, I suppose." At this, Sturnus clacked his beak and cocked his head to the side in confusion. 

"Marm… Jess… I don't think you-" Blake called out softly in warning. 

"Quiet, you two," she snapped, "and give me a boost." 

Blake sighed, and furrowed his brow- frustration was evident on the mouse's face. Let Jessandra make her attempt at dinner, and scare the living daylights out of Sturnus… or refuse the lady, angering her further? He seemed to come to a solution. 

"I'm not entirely sure the chains will allow for that, marm- it is a very high tree, and we can't take the risk of having one of our number injured any further." 

"You're just saying that to humor Birdbrains here," she hissed. "By the powers that be, I'll have my dinner, and I'll have it now." 

"Marm-" 

"And don't you feed me any of this 'it's for the good of the group' nonsense-" 

"Miss Jessandra-" 

"I WANT MY MEAL, MOUSE-" 

"No, Jessie, no! Stop!" 

"Shut up, beak-for-brains, this is my fight!" 

"Jessieeee-" 

"Hold still, you foul little ratling, I'll rip your throat out with my claws and have you for dinner!" 

"JESSANDRA-" 

The lizard listened attentively. The presence of other beasts- obviously not of her own- was evident. They gave themselves away. A slithery, croaking rattle that might have been a laugh escaped her throat. 

Oh, yes. The Lord would be pleased indeed. 


	9. Don't Pull Me Chain, Mates: Jickador

**Don't Pull Me' Chain, Mates**   
**Jickador Aldo**

If there was one thing in the world of which Jickador Aldo was most afraid, it would have to be losing control of a situation. He had been face to face with his worst fear ever since being captured by the slavers nearly a season ago, but now he was beginning to regain a sense of balance. The circumstances that had brought him to his current position had left him in tatters, bruised and cut in nearly every place imaginable, and his handsome black vest was torn and caked in mud. He had struggled harder than ever in his life during the months of his captivity, but the last hour had been the hardest of all. Driven by the hope of freedom, pursued by some unseen demon, he had ran like a madbeast through the swamp, ignoring all injuries and hardly even looking to see if his chain-mates were keeping up. Now, all of that was nearly behind him. Though he had been stripped of his weapons and much of his pride, the company he now found himself in consisted of an elderly she-mouse and a foolish hamster, neither of which seemed extremely capable. Yes, Jick was in his element, and he reveled in the helpless looks he saw printed on the faces of his companions. 

Chuckling silently, he gave Dorog a friendly pat on the back. "Well Dorie, me' mate, looks like we're in a bit of a pickle. Ye' can bet yer rudder though that ol' Jick'll have an idea any minute now!" He winked roguishly at the hamster, hoping secretly that he was right. Bending down, he began to closely examine the chains around his battered footpaws. 

Only once before in his life had Jick been chained, and he had not managed to free himself on that occasion. It had been when he was still young, and he could remember the details quite clearly at this particular moment. Several of his shrew "friends" had overcome him late one night in a deserted part of the woods and chained him to a tree, leaving him to die. Desperation had filled him after an entire night of trying to escape the cruel device, and he had cried for help. Fortunately, an old beaver heard his distressed calls and came to help him, bringing an axe that he kept in his home. The axe had shattered the chains, and the sea otter was freed. That very morning he had returned to the shrews' lakeside home, found his captors asleep in their tents, and awoke them to cut their throats. One by one… 

"It seems your idea is a little slow in coming, eh Jicks?" Lalilly's voice brought Jickador back to reality with a start, and he chuckled aloud at his own surprise. The older mouse was growing impatient, so Jick decided to stand up and look busy. 

Seeing a fairly large rock jutting out of the mist shortly ahead, the otter thought aloud. "Per'aps we could smash these blasted chains on that rock o'er there. What do ye' say, mates?" 

Shrugging their shoulders, the other two agreed it was worth a try. Jick, being the strongest, lifted the length of chain between him and Dorie and brought it down hard against the jagged piece of stone. The effort proved fruitless, and only caused the hamster to lose his footing and come crashing to the ground in a ball of fur. Lal giggled quietly, and Jick gave a wry smile as he helped an indignant Dorie back to his feet. The malicious otter was confident that he would soon find a way to be rid of these chains, and then it would only be left to decide what to do with the other two. At the moment it seemed wise to have them as allies, because one could never know what dangers lurked in a swamp such as this. Of course there was no sport in keeping them as friends, so the disguise would only last until he perceived the time was right. 

He was in control of the situation. 


	10. A Bird in the Hand: Sturnus

**A Bird in the Hand**   
**Sturnus**

The trio collapsed into a heap of fur, feathers, and bad feelings shortly after the Gymnastic Endeavor had begun. It went as one would expect: Jessandra's climbing combined with Blake's slight figure and Sturnus's constant fidgeting, a muddy ball of unhappiness was soon formed on the ground below. 

"It was your fault, beakbrain, for letting me fall!" She accused, pointing a foreboding claw at the bird. 

"Now, Lady Jessandra, let's–" Blake began, but was soon cut off by Sturnus's reply. 

"It was your dumb idea to climb in the first place, with a small chain," his pinion fathers mimicked the cat's own gesture. 

"Listen here, feathernose!" 

"Pipe down, clawbottom!" 

"Who're you calling 'clawbottom', talons-for-brains?" 

"Hey!" The mouse's small voice suddenly filled the area in much the same way that air doesn't, "Will both of you just can it?" His tiny chest heaved as he gave them both a desperate look, "You're worse than a pair of ratbabes full of candied chestnuts." 

After their chastising, the pair turned from one another, both pouting at being told off by a mouse. Sturnus's chest was still rising and falling in an erratic rhythm from the exertion of holding the cat up. 'Stupid cat,' he thought, 'tryin' to eat them. They could be my nephews for all I know.' 

The servant huffed again, taking his blue cloak in paw and wringing it, his nose turned up at the offending liquid that leaked out of the textile. He selected a more solid surface to sit down on, then, stretching his legs out as he continued his examination of the article, "Ruined…" 

"At least we made it out," the wildcat commented, rearranging herself farther from the group, "better than just about every other beast." The grackle still wasn't sure what to make of her, a mother one minute, a menace the next. "Need somethin', featherbrain?" she asked, noting how he was staring off into space at her. 

"Hmm? Err… nothin'," he replied, shaking his great head at her. Then, an iridescent something caught his eye in the mud. Thinking it was a feather, he almost shrugged it off, until it moved. His thoughts then stalled out, dropping the clutch of his mind into a befuddled neutral. It was kickstarted, however, by the recognition of the object as the biggest, juiciest-looking beetle he had ever seen. Almost salivating, he stalked to his feet and made a lunge, diving for the only shimmering in the loamy depths of the ground. Both of his chainmates called out in surprise as he dove, dragging them with him as he neatly speared the insect. 

He was practically beaming as he brought the morsel back to the dry spot, preparing to drop the bug down his greedy gullet. Then, a memory frolicked into the forefront of his mind: his mother was standing over him, buffeting him about his beak with a great wing. Her words burned like sulphur into his mind, "Stop hoggin' the chow, beakbrain!" 

Snapping back into reality, he replied, "Ow! Mum! That hurt!" 

"What did you say, pinionbottom?" asked Jessandra, as she robbed her sore behind, still grumbling about the jarring from earlier. 

"Um… Nothin'," Sturnus hadn't realized he had spoken out loud. He took a look at the insect, then, with the words of his mother still fresh in his mind, he reached down with his beak to the junction of the lower shell, and wings, and pried it apart, revealing a gooey substance perched on the lower shell like a tiny serving platter of pâté. He offered it first to Blake. 

The mouse shook his head at the offering, "No thank you." 

"Tastes just like richbeast food," Sturnus explained, keeping it held out. 

Blake pulled a face, commenting, "Looks like it, too." 

The three were finally able to shake with laughter at the comparison to their old lives, the reminder a catalyst, allowing them to finally relieve the burden that the adventure had thus far lain on them. Like a fat hedgehog getting out of a hammock, something snapped, but a lot of tension was relieved. 

The lizard cocked her head at the strange behavior of the beasts she had been watching. Truly odd. There was nothing funny about insect entrails. 


	11. Week One Summary

**The Story So Far ... Week 1 Summary**

Blake, Jessandra and Sturnus continue to travel, taking advantage of their head start on the slavers, until they camp down for the night at dusk. All the while, they are being spied upon by a strange scaly creature. The lizard, armed with a knife, makes an attempt on Blake's life, but is thwarted when Jessandra uses the chains to knock it out. 

The attempt on his life throws Blake into a panic attack -- "Blades! Lizards with blades coming in the night! It's like a horrible ending to the bloody book of my life" -- but under Sturnus's suggestion, uses the lizard's knife to pick their ankle locks and remove their chains. As a precaution against both beasts, he chains the lizard to Jessandra. With much threatening from the wildcat, the lizard (named Quaddling, or "Quaddles" as Sturnus calls her) has promised to lead them out of the swamp in return for her life. 

Sturnus, after a laborious thought process and much dredging of the sayings of his mother, has them chain Quaddling to him instead. They continue following Quaddling's lead until Jessandra and Blake fall slightly behind; the two hear a screeching, presumably of Sturnus, and several answering screeches. 

--- 

Sycamore and Cinder break the chains between them by pounding them repeatedly with a rock, while Phoebe does a bad job keeping watch. Cinder goes foraging for food and finds several tubers and some fresh fish, arousing the interest of a mysterious creature downstream. Meanwhile, Phoebe and Sycamore go in search of a new place to camp, Phoebe continually slighting her companion. Sycamore continues beating the chains between himself and Phoebe, which allows Cinder to find them. At the sight of Cinder cleaning the raw fish, Phoebe faints clean away. 

While the rabbit is out cold, Sycamore manages to break the last of the chains, and Cinder has started a fire and cooked the food. Phoebe accepts and scarfs the food rudely -- "Even the best of us have to eat, you know. I'm not perfect, just beautiful" -- and isolates herself on the other side of the fire. When she realizes that it might be nice to join them, her attempts fail. 

The three go to sleep for the night. In the middle of the night, Cinder awakens and hears a nearby rustling noise. She goes in search of it, only to find a horrible monster, and dashes back to camp. Sycamore is awakened from a hydrophobic dream by Cinder, who then wakes Phoebe. The creature comes into the camp. Sycamore bolts up a tree, where he hears the shrieks of his companions suddenly cease. 

--- 

Jickador attempts to break their chains with a rock, only to send himself, Dorog and Lalilly toppling into the mud repeatedly. Lalilly, constantly amused by their situation, decides that she needs to find a new walking stick with the aid of her companions (not so amused.) Ultimately, Dorog finds himself gang-pressed into carrying her on "the walk of a thousand sticks." Long after darkness falls, she finds her perfect walking stick -- at which point the three of them hear a loud, metallic clanging. 

Realizing that the sound may be coming from other escaped slaves, they head toward the noise. Jickador is reminded of a former companion, a thief-rat named Lyonie, but his memories are interrupted by the discovery of three reptiles in their path. They attempt to back away without being seen, but Lalilly's long-sought stick breaks loudly and the reptiles give chase. 

They run in the direction from which they have last heard the clanging, which has now ceased. Dorog is reminded of a heroic tale of his own invention, and spins it in his head. The tallest of the lizards catches up to them and leaps on Jickador, who beats its head with a rock and saves them. They continue to move, pausing as they discover the skeleton of a beast in chains -- a former slaver, they decide. Jickador sees something moving in the bushes. 

--- 

Jickador, Lalilly and Dorog burst into Cinder, Sycamore and Phoebe's camp. At the sight of the mud-covered, misshapen beasts, Phoebe faints, Sycamore bolts, and Cinder grabs her skewer from the fire. 

Lalilly jokes that Dorog scared them with his scent. Dorog cracks that it was Lalilly's humor that frightened them, and Cin realizes by their chains that they were slaves too. The introduce themselves; Sycamore comes down from his tree and Phoebe regains consciousness. However, they realize the pursuers are still on their tails, and all six of them run. Phoebe, ill-suited for dashing through a swamp, is amazed by the concern that Cinder shows in the run, but before she can show gratitude is caught by scaly hands. 

----------------- 

What will come of this mad flight and surprise attack? Follow the link on the website for the full story -- and stay tuned as summaries continue to appear here on Fanfiction dot net!


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